“I am very much afraid,” Lord Darcy said, “that ritual had nothing to do with it. It seems that, rather than being out-of-bounds, Pyramid Island is the center of what must be a large, and very secret, smuggling operation.”
“Smuggling, my lord? Who would be smuggling what, and for what purpose?” Duke Charles looked puzzled and concerned.
“We can only conjecture, Your Grace,” Lord Darcy said. “Master Sean’s forensic report is on your desk. Would you like to go over it now?”
His Grace of Arc turned to the short Irish sorcerer. “Perhaps it would be just as well if you tell me your findings, Master Sean,” he said. “That way I’ll have you here to ask questions about what I don’t understand.”
“Very good, Your Grace,” Master Sean said. “I’ll start at the beginning, then, shall I?”
“The beginning of what? Not too far back, I trust,” His Grace said, chuckling. “Start with the discovery of this new body, if you’ll be so good.”
Master Sean forbore telling the duke that such had been his intention, and merely nodded. The term “beginning” obviously had a different connotation for the duke; perhaps because he could trace his family tree back for eleven hundred years.
“Lord Darcy, Lord John Quetzal, and I discovered a secret passage in the erstwhile temple of Huitsilopochtli, atop the pyramid,” Master Sean said, beginning at his beginning. “There is a secret door into the temple, concealed in the rubble between the two temples. Then a separate concealed entrance to the passage. It descends, via flights of stone stairs, to a concealed room inside the pyramid itself. This room, in the shape of a sixty-foot square, has eight-foot-high ceilings, which are held up by a grid of stone pillars about three feet wide. It had once been a temple atop the pyramid, when the pyramid was smaller. We have not yet ascertained to what god or goddess the temple was consecrated, except that it was not Huitsilopochtli or another of the grossly evil ones.”
“How do you mean, Master Sean, the pyramid was ‘smaller’?” Duke Charles asked. “Has it not always been the same size since its completion?”
Master Sean looked over at Lord John, who took up the explanation of this peculiarity of Azteque pyramid building.
“I understand,” the duke said after hearing Lord John’s description. “Then, this temple must have been full of debris at one time?”
“Yes,” Lord John agreed, “and subsequently cleared out. Probably quite recently.”
“Master Sean’s forensic tests, done with Lord John’s assistance, indicate that the room was being used to store contraband goods,” Lord Darcy said.
“What sort of contraband goods?” His Grace demanded. “And how recently?”
“Gunpowder,” Master Sean said. “There were definite traces of gunpowder. And a sort of heavy grease that is used to ship iron and steel machinery, to protect it from rust. I would say the room was used for storing these things up until the time of the murder, two weeks ago.”
His Grace leaned forward. “What sort of machinery?”
“I’d be guessing, Your Grace,” Master Sean said. “But my guess, if you want it, would be—guns.”
Duke Charles nodded. “My guess also,” he said. “The tribes have been getting a small number of repeating arms from somewhere. So far, not enough to cause a serious problem, but we don’t know what the critical point is. Or who is supplying the guns. Also there seems to be an attempt, by trickery and deceit, to turn the native tribes against us. That’s what Major DePemmery is investigating now in FitzLeeber Land, although we’re trying to keep that quiet. But how did the smugglers get to the pyramid itself, even to use a secret door? It had a protective spell on it, did it not?”
“Aye, Your Grace. And a peculiar sort of protective spell it was, according to Lord John.”
“It had—holes—in it,” Lord John said. “Master Sean called them ‘windows,’ and that’s a good description. It was set so that anyone coming to Pyramid Island with a legitimate purpose could approach and mount the pyramid.”
“I don’t call smuggling a legitimate purpose, begad!” Duke Charles said firmly, slapping the desk top for emphasis.
“Aye, Your Grace, but, you see, the smugglers did,” Master Sean explained. “And the engagement in the original spell must have been such as to permit that interpretation. Much magic is a matter of intent. And, in this spell, the intent was close to, but not quite what it should have been.”
“We don’t, at this time, know whether it was an unfortunate misspelling, which the smugglers took advantage of, or a connivance at treason,” Lord Darcy said. “Father Adamsus is going to search the Cathedral records tomorrow, to track down for us the covenants of the original spell and each renewal. That may or may not be helpful; we shall see.”
“And the murdered man?” his grace asked.
“Died at the same time as the Prince,” Master Sean said. “The interesting thing is, Your Grace, that Prince Ixequatle was also killed in that room. There were clear traces of his blood there. But his body—and not the other—was taken upstairs to the temple. Although the other murdered man was found lying on Prince Ixequatle’s woolen cloak.”
“That is interesting,” Duke Charles said. “It’s sort of like a puzzle, isn’t it, Lord Darcy? I can see how one can get tied up in solving these things. Why would the murderer leave one body in place and drag the other one up flights of stone stairs to the temple? I assume that they were both killed by the same person?”
“I think that’s a safe assumption, Your Grace,” Lord Darcy said. “And I think I know why the bodies were separated.”
The duke stared at him for a minute and then said: “Speak, Lord Darcy; we’re all ears.”
“The Prince was brought upstairs because the murderer knew that he would be missed and searched for. The other man was left downstairs because the murderer knew he wouldn’t be.”
“Go on,” His Grace said.
“They needed time to clear out their warehouse—that room in the pyramid. There were several stones movable from the inside that opened a larger door on the south side, on the same level as the room. Ideal for moving their illicit goods, but it would still take time to clear out the room. If you had gone looking for the Prince, and discovered that he was last seen headed toward Pyramid Island, you might have found the secret room sooner. Someone might have looked for it—do you see?—the way we eventually did, looking for the Prince’s cloak.
“And the murderer didn’t bring the second body upstairs, either because he didn’t have the time or because he didn’t want to confuse us.”
“Very thoughtful of him, I call it,” Master Sean said.
“Very clever of him, certainly,” Lord Darcy said. “It was meant to distract us, and distract us it did. Had it not been for the Prince’s cloak, we never would have thought of looking for a concealed room in the pyramid. And I am supposed to think of that sort of thing.”
“This murderer seems like a brilliant and dangerous antagonist,” the duke said, “if, indeed, his reasoning is as you suggest. A purpose behind every move.”
“True,” Lord Darcy agreed. “Which makes the puzzle all the more puzzling: Just why were the hearts torn from the chests of those two young men?”
“To further confuse us?” Duke Charles suggested. “The heavens know, I’m confused.”
“It could not have been Azteques using the secret room,” Lord John said. “They take their religion and beliefs very seriously. Reclaiming a room from a previous cycle would be sacrilegious. Besides, aside from the Prince’s party, there were no Azteques here. Only fallen Azteques, a few of them. As a good Christian, and the son of a good Christian, I exempt myself from either category, you understand.”
“Of course, Lord John,” the duke said.
“Azteques would neither pervert their ceremony, nor draw attention to themselves that way,” Lord Darcy said. “No, there was a reason why those hearts were removed. I am sure of it as I am that the Pope is English.”
“It h
ad something to do with preserving the secret of that stone chamber, no doubt,” His Grace said. “I am probably only striking at shadows when I say that this has the earmarks, to me, of a Polish plot.”
Lord Darcy rose. “I have been thinking the same thing, Your Grace. It is in the small things that you shall know them, and the small things hint strongly of Serka plotting.”
Lord John Quetzal looked from one to the other. “I thought we had left the Serka behind on the Old Continent,” he said. “I grant that the world is round, as the philosophers say, but we are over six thousand miles from Polish territory, in any direction.”
“The arm of the Serka is long,” Duke Charles said, “and their capacity for troublemaking is unbounded by oceans or physical distance. King Casimir is not pleased that we have come so blithely to the Northern and Southern continents of the New World, and called the one ‘New England,’ and the other ‘New France.’ Why not, he must say to himself, a ‘New Smolensk’ or a ‘New Lithuania?’ Now, he cannot hope to bring this about tomorrow—”
”I should say not!” Master Sean interrupted indignantly.
“—but somewhere in his long-range plans I’m sure there is a timetable for the, ah, liberation of the New Continents,” His Grace went on. “And if, in the meantime, he can cause us any embarrassment or difficulty, I’m sure he will do it. And the Serka is his right arm.”
“But if he arms the natives to drive us out,” Lord John said, “then, when he does come, he’ll have to face armed natives.”
Duke Charles stirred. “‘When he does come,’ Lord John?”
“I speak for his thinking only, Your Grace,” Lord John replied. “There is in my mind no possibility that he could succeed with such a venture. But it seems madness even to try.”
“Aye, it is that; but madness can cause much trouble, nonetheless.” The duke sighed and rose to his feet. “Find out for me, Lord Darcy, Master Sean, Lord John; find out what’s going on, and why. Two men with their hearts torn out is a mystery, but an association of native tribes up in arms against the Empire—and those arms gunpowder weapons—would be a tragedy for both sides.”
“We will do our best, Your Grace,” Lord Darcy said, bowing slightly from the waist as Duke Charles left the room.
The duke turned back from the doorway. “If nothing calls this evening, my lords, Master Sean, I would have you attend the dinner in the Residence, and the fete afterward. It is Founding Day, marking the hundred-and-sixth anniversary of the founding of Nova Eboracum. There will be fireworks.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Lord Darcy said. “We shall attend.”
“Lord John, I am sure, has received an invitation,” the duke said. “But it suddenly occurred to me that you two, Lord Darcy and Master Sean, are probably not on any of the invitation lists, for all that you are staying in suites in the Residence. Am I right?”
“I do not recall receiving an invitation,” Lord Darcy said, “As far as I am aware, I have received no mail here save for a note from my, ah, cousin, suggesting that we dine. She confesses to an ulterior motive, having several young lady friends that she wishes to impress.”
“You would be quite a catch, my lord,” the duke said. “For dinner, of course, I mean.”
Lord Darcy smiled. “It is Master Sean that they are truly fascinated by,” he said. “There is a certain air of—magic—about him that these young girls find irresistible, according to my cousin. The note was very specific about my bringing him along.”
“I have given up eating dinner,” the Master Magician said stoutly, “to prepare for Lent.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Residence in Nova Eboracum was barely twenty years old, and parts of it, indeed, were much younger than that. And yet it carried itself with the sense of decorum that is usually acquired only with the patina of great age. Just as some women are dowagers at forty, with or without a dower, some buildings are institutions at birth.
In his design, the architect had eschewed all hint of the modern and gone for the heavy formality of the Queen Stephanie period. Back home a touch of the new, a hint that King John IV was on the throne—and had been for these past twenty-seven years—and that the world had progressed since one’s grandfather’s day, might not be amiss even in a public building. But here on the frontier, where the Angevin Empire held a tenuous grasp on a great continent, there was something solidly reassuring about a ducal residence that, at least in appearance, might have been firmly established in that spot for the past three hundred years instead of scarcely two decades.
The building was in the shape of a capital letter E, with the three tines facing the interior of the island, and the flat back paralleling the broad lawn that led down to the bank of the Arthur River. The central tine held the administrative offices, although they tended to spill out in both directions. The two outer tines were residential apartments for the Royal Governor (always a duke, and currently Charles of Arc), various essential seneschals, provincial officials, and guests.
The celebratory dinner, a stand-up buffet, was to be held in the Long Ballroom, which ran the length of the spine of the building. Large picture windows spaced along the outer wall opened to the great lawn, which gradually rolled down to the Arthur. The Long Ballroom was made up of the North Ballroom and the South Ballroom, each capable of seating three or four hundred people for a State banquet, and normally separated by an extension of the central hallway leading to a pair of large doors; the formal exit to the lawn. To create the Long Ballroom, several walls were removed and a section of ballroom flooring was inserted in place of the tile floor of the central hallway. It took a day and a half to ready the room for use, and another day and a half to disassemble it. But such a large room was not needed more than two or three times a year; on Founding Day, the King’s Birthday, and perhaps for a really important wedding or a State funeral.
Lord Darcy tied the tie on his ruffled shirt with the easy grace of long practice, and slipped into the gray dress tunic with red piping that was the most formal garment he had brought with him. It was formal enough for most occasions, but it wasn’t court formal—a style that was about three hundred years behind the times. Customs and dress at court changed with glacier speed.
Luckily, the duke had assured him that there would be a wide variety of dress at the dinner. “There isn’t enough court dress in this town to fill a cloakroom, much less the Long Ballroom,” he had said. “We are very informal out here in the wilderness.”
Lord Darcy inspected himself critically in the full-length mirror affixed to the inside of the armoire door. His ears, he thought for the thousandth time, were a trifle too large, and his nose was definitely too long for any standard of good looks. The best that could be said, he decided once again, was that he had an interesting face. The ornate Horry clock in his study struck seven, the high bell-like chimes reverberating through the apartment.
Lord Darcy was a fastidious dresser, but he was not usually overly concerned with that part of his appearance that he had been born with. That he would take up with his Maker at some appropriate time. And besides, it did not seem to scare off such women as he wished not to be scared off; and what more could a man want?
But once in a while, when staring at himself in a glass, he found himself making a critical appraisal of what he saw. It was no sort of vanity, but rather the inevitable reaction of a man who had made a habit of studying and analyzing everything in his view.
“Well, Mullion,” he said, as his court-appointed valet came into the room, “what do you think?”
“About what, my lord?” Mullion asked, putting down the caffe tray Lord Darcy had sent for. “Your caffe, my lord.”
“My appearance,” Lord Darcy said, taking the cup from the tray and downing the satisfying beverage in one long swallow. “Am I fit to meet with New Borkum society this night?” he asked, wiping his lips with the provided napkin.
“Yes, my lord,” Mullion said.
“Is it formal enough to wear my dress swor
d, do you think?” Lord Darcy asked. “Or should I leave that piece of ironmongery in the closet?”
“I couldn’t say, my lord,” Mullion replied.
“Are you coming to the festivities?” Lord Darcy asked, knowing that all, from the highest to the lowest in the Residence, were invited.
“I think not, my lord,” Mullion said.
“You’ll miss all the fun,” Lord Darcy said, trying to provoke some sort of response.
“Fun, my lord?” Mullion managed to get into those few syllables the intonations of a man who has just been asked to eat worms.
Lord Darcy sighed. He had once again tried to make conversation, to get a positive response out of Mullion; and once again he had failed. Although that was an interesting negative: What sort of person reacts with distaste to the idea of “fun”? A religious fanatic, perhaps? Well, Lord Darcy had best not let it become a challenge. If the man didn’t wish to talk; if he desired to do his job at the lowest possible level of compliance, despite the fact that he was clearly bright enough to do better, that was his affair. But it was curious.
If there was an ulterior motive for Mullion’s behavior, Lord Darcy would soon know it. He had put the taciturn valet’s name on the list of those to be checked. Not exactly a suspect, just an unanswered question. Which would soon be answered on flimsy white paper with a red line down the left hand margin.
“Thank you, Mullion,” Lord Darcy said. He decided on the sword and buckled it on. A gentleman was not dressed without his sword. Giving one final tug on the corners of his tie, he left his apartment for the Long Ballroom.
It was still early, but the ballroom seemed to be about a quarter-full already. Which, Lord Darcy estimated, meant there were something over three hundred people in the room. And the dress was, as the duke had said, informal. There was a smattering of court dress around; The duke himself, several lesser lords and ladies attached to the court, various seneschals and the like, and all the working servants were attired in the garb of the fourth Richard. Lord Darcy walked slowly around the room, observing the other guests, who were costumed in a variety of interesting ways seldom seen in London.
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